"I've been thinking," said the woman.
"That statement begs for a witty retort," said her friend, also a woman. "But I can't think of one."
"How would you describe me?" the woman said. "--I mean, if you were writing a story in which an illusion of me appeared?"
"Black hair, shoulder length--straight but not morose. The hair, I mean."
"Can hair be morose?"
"Yes, but don't interrupt. Pale but healthy complexion--white, if you will. Figure--not willowy, but not oak or sequoia sempervirens, either. Taller than the average woman but only just. Blue eyes. A tendency to brood, unlike her hair, which is not morose, as noted. Clothed."
"Would you like to be naked in the story?"
"It depends on who else is there. You know me. I am shy. I'll say no. That's a good description. People can fill in the rest?
"You mean, like red lipstick and ears?"
"I'm not wearing red lipstick. Any lipstick."
Walking, they had reached a cafe, which smelled of course of coffee, and of cardamom, people, and snow. Outside, there was no mistaking Winter.
"People will fill in as they wish. Maybe lipstick, maybe not. Definitely ears. I've been thinking, too."
"About thinking. About all the past and current thinking humans and hominids, all of them, have done, are doing. The volume of thoughts--it seems unimaginable."
"Then don't try to imagine it, the volume."
"But it inspires wonder, the imagining."
"And so, my dearest friend, I think I will imagine. If I can."